Dreadful November weather, grey and spitting with rain. Helen and Daniella — my former cleaner/carer — came to lunch. Both well. Daniella has a family of her own and can’t provide the live-in care I now need.

I feel droopy, and Wafa says I seem below par. 

Wafa insisted on doing the sourdough by herself. She had baked it before I appeared  in the kitchen at 7 a.m. It tastes nice, but again lacks oven spring and since I was excluded from the process at several crucial points, I am no nearer diagnosing the trouble. I know that the starter was lively. Helen took half of the bread home. 

Some knitting, not much.

A certain amount of discussion about getting me to Helen’s house on Christmas day. As recently as June (I think) I used to go to Mass with C. every week, descending the six steps outside my door by holding on tight to the railing with one hand and to C.’s hand with the other. Everybody says I am not strong enough to do that any more. The current thought is that I could be bumped down (and up) in my wheelchair by strong men, of which Helen has a good supply. 

You’re right, Mary Lou, that homemade are the best Christmas presents. I have but rarely, in a long life, allowed myself to knit presents. These dark, wet days are bad enough without adding nervous tension. There have been exceptions, including the memorable Christmas when I knit everybody a hat. 

Wordle: a true stinker today. I scored six, which was no disgrace — Roger, Theo, and Alexander failed. Five for Rachel and Mark, four for Ketki and Thomas (the stars of the day). I didn’t think much of the word, either.